


kalpa

by mantleofsanguine



Series: aloubard monrelle [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Companionable Snark, Dovahkiin | Dragonborn Listener, Dragons, Fantasy, M/M, Mythology References, Partners to Lovers, Skyrim Main Quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29105448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mantleofsanguine/pseuds/mantleofsanguine
Summary: When the Snow Tower lies sunless, kingless, bleeding,the World Eater wakes, and the wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.The return of Alduin signals the beginning of the end of the world. It was just Aloubard’s luck that he’d get tied up in the middle of it.
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Vorstag
Series: aloubard monrelle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141565
Kudos: 1





	kalpa

In the dream, Aloubard is running through the temple, an unknown beast hot on his heels. Temple to whom, he doesn’t know, although he’s never stepped foot in a place such as this in his life. He can feel the urgency boiling over within him, along with it the ever-present need to quicken his heels, but in vain. The seemingly endless halls seem to get darker and more dismal as he progresses.

The creature roars behind him, and he reaches the tunnel’s end. He’s trapped, he realizes, between a dead end and a hungry beast. It’s eerily silent, not even the pounding wing beats that had chased him all this way to echo through the ancient stone chamber. His chest is heaving from exertion, and he has nowhere to go, but it still takes every ounce of willpower in his body to turn around. He pries open his eyes.

The creature looms silently before him, taller than maybe even the White-Gold tower. Its glowing red eyes pierce a burning hole through the mist. It rears its head back and opens its gaping pitch-black maw. To Aloubard’s horror, it speaks. “The time has come, Dovahkiin.”

It launches itself at Aloubard so quickly that he doesn’t have a chance to scream.

—————

Aloubard wakes with a start, bolting up out of bed. He’s already escaped the dragon once, just by the skin of his ears. For all his pride, he doesn’t know if he can pull off getting away from it twice.

Vorstag jumps. “Aloubard, what-“

A booming sound thunders through the air. It slices clean through Vorstag’s words, and makes the room around them quake with all the ferocity of the Red Mountain.

“Do-vah-kiin!”

The sound resounds deep. Aloubard feels it in his core, beckoning him to reply in a way he can’t yet fathom.

It ends as suddenly as it began. Whoever it was clearly had nothing more to say.

A few moments pass. The silence is deafening, but it allows Aloubard to get a handle on his breathing. He brings a hand up to his face, absently, and is met with a sweat-soaked forehead. His nose wrinkles in disgust. “What’d you do, dump a bucket of water on me?”

Vorstag scoffs. “I did no such thing.”

Aloubard doesn’t press. He stands up. His shirt is almost as damp as his forehead, and sticks to his chest. He cringes at the feeling. “For once, I believe you,” he says.

He grabs the half empty wine bottle from dinner, and heads out the door in search of a bath.

—————

In the morning, when dawn has barely begun to seep in through the window, Vorstag gradually emerges from a deep sleep. As he rolls over in his bed, he feels the strain from the day before aching in his sword arm. It had been a long and hard fight to take down the dragon, and the aftermath had been even longer. The beast went down too quickly for him to be comfortable with, and then there was the business with Aloubard. The strange golden light that came from the dragon after it fell, and the dozens of people that had immediately flocked to a aloubard when it enveloped him like a luminous cloak...

Dragonborn, they called him. Dragonborn, even though Aloubard doesn’t have even a single drop of Nord blood. Dragonborn, like in the legends, like Talos had been back when he was but a man. A man with the blood of the Septims and the soul of a dragon, but mortal nonetheless. Vorstag grew up on the stories, just as all children north of Cryodiil’s border do.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, mulling over the thought. It was nonsense. It had to be. Tiber Septim was real as anyone else, but the last of his line died out centuries ago. If there’s no one left to pass on the blood then another dragonborn just wasn’t possible. Just the idea of someone as duplicitous as Aloubard being the last dragonborn of legend was ridiculous, bordering on laughable. Prophecy or not, the end of the world will just have to wait.

He sighs. If it was later in the day and he’d had all his faculties, he wouldn’t have given the idea a second thought. The cool morning air carried the usual peaceful ambience that it always does, and he inhales deeply. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able drift off again before the sun rises over Whiterun’s walls.

All is peaceful, and he’s as relaxed as he’s going to get. Then, there’s a knock at the door, because the gods never let him have nice things.

He doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t have to, it turns out. Aloubard rises from his reclined position in his own bed across the room, growling, and burns a hole in the wood with the ferocity of his glare alone.

“Vorstag,” he whispers. “Get the door.”

Vorstag had just gotten comfortable. It would take a team of draft horses to pry him out from under the warmth of the covers now. He lies perfectly still, his eyes closed, hoping that it’ll be enough to get Aloubard to believe he’s still asleep.

Aloubard huffs. There’s some shuffling, and then suddenly something strikes Vorstag square in the face. It doesn’t hurt; Aloubard gave him the mercy of hitting him with a soft object, a pillow, Vorstag realizes. He doesn’t expect it, but coming from Aloubard he really should. He groans, and shoves it off his face. It falls onto the floor with a soft thud.

He hears Aloubard mutter a curse under his breath as he reluctantly makes his way to the door.

Whoever’s awake and bothering people this early in the morning must have urgent business. What sort of urgent business someone could have with a no-name free agent and a blade for hire from the Reach, he doesn’t know. Aloubard always seemed to find himself in all sorts of unlikely situations. He had a tendency to drag Vorstag along for the ride, whether he wanted to join him or not, enticing him with promises of excitement and hefty pay. Usually, he ended up with barely enough to fill his coin purse and a new scar to add to his growing collection, but a prospect of such things is enough to make him tag along time after time after time. Maybe something unfortunate happened to some poor sod while he was sleeping, something that will keep both Aloubard and Vorstag fed for weeks after they deal with it. Or maybe, and this is the more likely of the two possibilities, Vorstag decides, Aloubard pissed off the wrong person again and they chose the most annoying time possible to be a dick about it.

Knowing Aloubard, it was probably the former.

Aloubard spoke to the visitor in a hushed tone. There was no rush in his voice, or any hurriedness to imply that he was in any sort of trouble. The conversation was over before it even seemed to begin, and Aloubard closed the door with something in hand. He turned it over, examining whatever it was with characteristic interest.

Oh well. At this point, Vorstag probably wasn’t going to get any more sleep no matter how hard he tried. “Who was that?” he asks. His voice is still rough from sleep.

Aloubard unfolds the paper, and begins reading. He takes a second to respond, but when he does he seems less groggy than he did before. He wads up the parchment and throws that at Vorstag, too.

“Get dressed. We’ve got a breakfast date with the Jarl.”

—————

Dawn still has not quite broke by the time they enter Dragonsreach. As they cross long expanse of the Great Hall, it becomes more and more apparent just how slow the mood is this morning. Even the guards seem to be sluggish.

Irileth is already attending to the day’s duties. She’s standing by the throne when she spots the two of them heading towards the residential wing. She approaches quickly and quietly. When she speaks, she addresses Aloubard only. “Who is this?” She points at Vorstag. She does not seem pleased. “The summons was for you, and you exclusively.”

Aloubard sighs. For as long as Vorstag has known him, he’s never liked dealing with politicians or their lackeys. Housecarls he seems to hold with the greatest level of disdain. Vorstag can’t remember a single instance where Aloubard was actually nice to one. Usually, that meant Vorstag apologized to them on Aloubard’s behalf after the fact. “Yes, well,” he begins. “You either let both of us through, or we both will turn around and go back to sleep.”

She stares him down, and Aloubard meets her glower with an equally intense one of his own. They seem almost at an impasse, and then Aloubard opens his mouth to speak again. “If you’d like to explain to the Jarl why his summons went unanswered, it’s your funeral.”

Irileth scoffs. “Fine. I doubt this one would pose much of a threat to security on his own, anyways.”

Vorstag can’t help but feel offended but he slight, but he knows better than to make a comment. Irileth allows them to pass, and they continue on. The Jarl has not left his chambers yet, according to his cupbearer. Apparently, he prefers to take his breakfast in solitude on his balcony whenever possible. It’s there that they find Jarl Balgruuf, sipping from a silver goblet befitting of a man of his title. He seems fairly satisfied to remain occupied with his meal for a moment longer.

It drags on. Aloubard taps his foot a little too audibly, impatient as ever. “Jarl Balgruuf, if I may ask-“

“You may not,” Balgruuf interrupts.

Aloubard seems taken aback. The emotion isn’t one Vorstag has seen him wear often. It looks foreign on his features. He gapes for a split second before catching himself, and shuts his mouth abruptly.

Jarl Balgruuf looks deep into his cup, thoughtful. “The Greybeards have broken their silence.”

Vorstag gasps. The Jarl must be referring to the booming noise from the evening before. Whiterun is so heavily populated that he’d written it off as some sort of bizarre prank on the townsfolk, but given second thought it did sound suspiciously like how he’d heard the Voice described before. It’s possible, but if they’re speaking up now, that means...

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Aloubard says. “I’m not originally from Skyrim.”

The Jarl hums. “I forget that our legends are not as well known outside of our borders.” His tone is somber. “The Greybeards are the keepers of the sacred Way of the Voice. As part of their duties, they take an oath of silence. An oath they have just broken.”

Any Nord with half a brain could discern what that means. Vorstag swallows his nerves. “The Dragonborn.”

If what Vorstag had said is news to the Jarl, he doesn’t show it. “They’ve used the voice to summon the dragonborn to High Hrothgar.” He sets his cup down, suddenly disinterested in his meal. His attention falls pointedly on Aloubard. “They’re calling for _you_ , lad.”

Oh, surely not.

“I... wh-“ Aloubard sputters. “I don’t even know what any of that means, let alone-“

“No matter,” says Balgruuf. “Irileth saw it. My guardsmen saw it. You,” he gestures to Vorstag, “he saw it. You devoured that dragon’s soul. That makes you dragonborn.”

Vorstag doesn’t know how to feel. What the Jarl says rationally seems like a load of bullshit, but when he thinks about it, it makes sense, in a strange way. Aloubard had shouted last night. It takes years of study and practice to learn the Voice, and even then the only people who really know how to use it are the Greybeards. Maybe they were calling out to him. People don’t just learn how to shout overnight. If the two events aren’t related, what other explanation is there?

The Jarl returns his attention to his food, a bit of his previous seriousness giving way to appetite. “You. Boy.”

Vorstag clears his throat when he realizes he’s being addressed. “Yes, my Jarl?”

“You know the way to Ivarstead?”

He can see where this is going from a mile away. He doesn’t know if he likes it or not. “Um, yes sir.”

“Escort the Dragonborn there. Make the pilgrimage… and make sure no harm comes to him.”

The notion that he needs to be escorted is one that naturally does not sit well with Aloubard. “I can make the journey myself,” he says. “I’ll go alone.”

The Jarl huffs, amused. “I’m going to venture to guess that you don’t know the lay of the land half as well as your friend does.” The Jarl picks up his goblet, and takes a long drink. “It wasn’t a suggestion.”

**Author's Note:**

> hi, 
> 
> feel free to follow me on twitter or tumblr if you want, or dm me if you have extra comments/questions! i’d be more than happy to talk about the elder scrolls, or about aloubard. he lives in my brain rent free. 
> 
> twitter: [@languorwine ](https://twitter.com/languorwine)  
> tumblr: [@fusrodaddy](http://fusrodaddy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (p.s. sorry for my cringe tumblr url, i have a terrible sense of humor dkjfhksd)


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